


Black Cars from Nowhere

by Singular_Oddities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holmes Brothers, POV John Watson, Post-The Final Problem, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 05:53:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20371756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singular_Oddities/pseuds/Singular_Oddities
Summary: Mycroft is ill, Sherlock is unmoved. John is questioning himself and his relationship with the Holmes’ once more.





	Black Cars from Nowhere

Some people are larger than life. Some people have a permanence that is never questioned.

For me, Mycroft Holmes was such a man. He was always watching. Always aware. A black car sliding out of nowhere. Charges dropped, evidence vanished, strings pulled. All by a man, I think I have spent less than a whole twenty-four hours with. Big brother was watching. He was always watching. I never doubted it, so I stopped thinking about it.

When, on my way back from the Tesco Express a black car slid to the curb, and the door opened I thought nothing of it. Nothing other than a passing moment of irritation that of course, Mycroft would send a car on my day off after three hellish shifts at the surgery. I'd had no sleep because Sherlock didn't have a case and he was taking out his boredom on the flat. So yes, of course, Mycroft would demand his share.

Anthea said nothing on the drive to where ever we were going, though I noticed she looked a little haggard. Perhaps I wasn't the only one suffering a punishing work schedule. That was only mildly interesting though. If Anthea was tired and drawn, then Mycroft was obviously stopping or starting a war in a country somewhere.

The car slid to a stop outside a house I had been to once before. I turned to check with Anthea who to my greater surprise was also getting out.

"Your shopping will be fine, you won't be more than twenty minutes."

I blinked. Twenty minutes? My meetings with Mycroft had never been anything you could describe as planned. I followed her into the house handing my coat off to the waiting attendant then down the hall. Anthea stopped in front of a closed door. She knocked gently, not pausing long enough for anyone to answer before opening the door and wedging herself in it.

"He's here, sir."

"Thank you." Was the soft response I had to strain to hear.

Anthea opened the door wider then retreated past me. Her eyes were wet, her usual blank expression struggling to hold its place on her face. I noticed as she walked away her hands were hanging by her sides. Empty. My mind ran backwards. She hadn't been on her phone in the car. She wasn't holding it now.

Unease washed over me. Suddenly I didn't want to walk through that door.

I did.

I wished I hadn't.

Mycroft was in bed. It was a very expensive bed, but that wasn't really the point, it was a hospital bed. The top half mechanically lifted so he could sit up. There was a cannula going up his nose and a drip connected to his hand. He was thin. Desperately thin. The kind of thin that instantly told me it was incurable.

"Dr Watson," the voice wasn't Mycroft's. The arrogant tone wasn't present, the words were forced, not smooth and rolling out of his mouth with a thousand things unsaid. I'd made the diagnosis before I reached the chair by his bed he gestured to. "Thank you for coming."

"I didn't know." Because I hadn't, and I thought I should have.

"I presumed Sherlock would have told you," Mycroft replied.

"Sherlock knows?" I blurted in disbelief.

"Of course. I received the diagnosis six weeks ago. I told Sherlock the same day. So far, I have outlasted my initial prognosis by two weeks. Which has been most helpful in allowing me to tie up a few loose ends, but I hardly need to tell you that I am not long for this world."

I said nothing. What could I say? Platitudes were pointless. "What can I do for you?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said wearily.

I wasn't surprised, really, what else would it be? Mycroft had for better or worse, taken upon himself the thankless task of watching over his brother, a burden I shared with him to some extent. "I can tell him," I offered. "Let him know that you are..."

"There's little point. If Sherlock wanted to be here, he would."

"But…"

"I do not expect a tearful reunion over my deathbed Dr Watson."

I bit my lip because Mycroft was dying, and I was struggling to comprehend how he could be so damn casual about it, and how in hell's name Sherlock hadn't said anything.

"When I'm dead I shan't be able to help," Mycroft continued. "It will fall to you I am afraid. I doubt I need to tell you that your joint propensity for disregarding the law will have to be curtailed. My successor is unlikely to hold Sherlock in the same affection. I have been able to use his status as a security risk to ensure his way is clear, but that will no longer stand with me gone."

"I." Words failed me again because I was not ready, I had been utterly blindsided, and I was probably incredibly dull in my attempts to understand what was going on.

"DI Lestrade might be able to help you. However, he is limited in his reach as he is answerable to his superiors. I suggest Dr Watson that you find my brother those cases that require less law breaking unless you wish to discover how accountable the legal system finds you."

"What about your family?"

"Oh, they have no pull, I'm afraid it falls to you," Mycroft said dismissively.

"No," I corrected. "I mean why aren't they here? Your parents."

Mycroft's smile was pained, and I thought it was unlikely due to his illness.

"I am afraid that after the incident with Eurus that my parents have decided that I am lacking. They have been informed of the state of my health. They expressed concern that their visits to Eurus would not be interrupted by my departure."

I sat in honest shock for a good few minutes. Mycroft seemed content to let me. His eyes fluttered shut, and he lay still, the hiss of the oxygen and the beep of the machines the only sound in the room. Perhaps he slept. By the time my brain had computed the absolute awfulness of the idea that his family were not going to support him, I had very little of use I could say.

His eyes fluttered open, I saw them dart around the room pained and confused before the polite mask was drawn up in place and he turned to me. "Forgive me, the medication is tiring."

"I don't know what to do," I said to him.

"There is nothing you can do. I wished to inform you as it seemed likely that Sherlock has not done so. My estate has been settled as I desire. Sherlock's trust fund will fall under the preview of my solicitor for the remainder of his life."

"Why?" I interrupted, wondering why Mycroft was holding onto the purse strings even in death. Was it spite? A continuation of the sibling rivalry that overshadowed their relationship?

"Dr Watson, Sherlock has had several wildly unsuccessful attempts at looking after himself. He deletes information such as when his rent is due, and how to pay a gas bill. Last time he had control of his trust fund he sank three thousand pounds into his arm. I do not, despite what he wishes to believe, do these things out of spite."

I nodded.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered again. "I am sorry Dr Watson, but I am going to have to cut this short. Anthea will see you home."

I stood having said nothing of use and still unable to think of anything to say. I hadn't ever liked Mycroft, I hadn't ever defended him when Sherlock ranted about him. I hadn't ever appreciated the man on the bed before me, dying.

"I can come back."

"There's no need," Mycroft said. "Everything is taken care of, you are now aware of the situation and able to take action when it is necessary."

"Who is taking care of you?" I asked.

Mycroft blinked. "I have a medical team Dr Watson, some of the best specialists in the field."

"I meant—,"

"I know what you meant," Mycroft interrupted.

I had nothing to say again because he did, and I already knew the answer, and Mycroft knew I knew the answer.

No one.

I reached out and touched his hand. I don't know if I meant it as comfort or what, but I couldn't walk away without some sort of gesture, as pointless or unwelcome as it might be. But then, I didn't know if it was or not, because I know nothing about this man in this bed.

Mycroft gave me a thin, tired smile that was full of understanding. I wanted to be irritated, I would have been, usually. I have always hated that the Holmes' could read me so easily. Instead, I felt my throat closing, and before I could entirely embarrass myself, I turned and left the room. In the hall, I stopped taking a deep breath fighting to regain my composure and equilibrium.

Anthea was waiting for me, my coat over her arm. Her eyes were still tired her expression still flickering.

"I'm sorry," I said because I was, and I wanted to tell someone who might accept the empty platitude in the way it was meant.

"No, you're not," she replied dismissively, handing me the coat. "You are unaware of who Mycroft Holmes is. You are completely clueless as to what we will lose when he dies. You've never spared him a thought before now. Never stepped a foot out of your way to make things easier for him."

"I—,"

Anthea overrode me. "You haven't. You've not cared a whit when you and that brother of his kept him up all night sorting out whatever mess you got yourselves into. You didn't care what Moriarty took from Mycroft, you don't understand what Sherringford did to him. In fact, as far as you were concerned 'what goes around comes around'" she spat at me. "Do you think having a brother like Sherlock and a sister like Eurus is easy? You saw what she is capable of and you had the gall to blame him for it."

I gaped at the ferocity of her words. She spun on one shiny high heel to the door. Yanking it open she stood there staring at me. The car was at the curb. I took the hint.

In the car, my shopping perfectly chilled at my feet, I went over everything. I wanted to defend myself but couldn't seem to grasp onto a point to start from.

I was guilty as charged and it didn't sit well with me. I had this idea that I was Sherlock's moral compass, the buffer between Sherlock's utter disdain for the world and the people he dealt with. I was the kind one. The compassionate one. But if it was true, then where did Mycroft fit in all that?

He'd sold Sherlock out to Moriarty. But it hadn't been his idea it had been Eurus. He locked his sister up in a cell for her entire life. Rewarding her with visits from psychopaths in return for solving problems. But it hadn't been him that had locked her up initially, he'd just carried on keeping the secret, and his sister was, well there wasn't a word strong enough. I never thought she _shouldn't_ be locked up.

I didn't want to reach the conclusion I was headed towards. That I might have been a total dick to Mycroft because Sherlock didn't like his brother. Without Mycroft, Sherlock would be in prison or dead because I'm not stupid. You don't inject three grand's worth of drugs into your arm and walk away unless someone gets you medical treatment.

Mycroft had tried to get Sherlock to shoot him. He'd walked into that hideous room, worked out what was going on, and made himself a target so Sherlock could kill him, and I could live. Mycroft had picked me over himself because it was better for Sherlock.

The car stopped, jolting me out of my thoughts. I looked up at the windows of the flat seeing the curtain fall back into place.

I gathered the shopping and got out of the car. Standing on the pavement, I looked at the front door. Sherlock was inside. Probably on the sofa in his pyjamas and that ridiculous dressing gown of his. Waiting for me to come up the stairs so he could tell me how bored he was. Sherlock, who had known for the last six weeks his brother was dying of cancer. Sherlock, who hadn't gone to see Mycroft.

I crossed the pavement. The handles of the plastic bags were cutting into my fingers, and I wanted to put them down. I was unsure if I wanted to see Sherlock.

Rosie was with Molly. I could drop the shopping off and go and collect her.

Rosie. My mind screeched to a halt again. His parents weren't visiting. Something made my heart clench. If it were Rosie, there would be no way to drag me away.

Was it symptomatic of the Holmes' lack of empathy? But then Eurus, Mr and Mrs Holmes were religious about their visits to their daughter. Sherlock was just as equally devoted to them.

I climbed the stairs, entered the flat, and went into the kitchen, all without looking at Sherlock. I put the shopping away without taking my coat off, folded the bag for life into a square and shoved it in my pocket. I patted myself down checking for my phone, wallet and keys.

"I'm going to go get Rosie," I said to the kitchen window, my back still to Sherlock. I didn't doubt he knew. He always knew. I didn't understand, and I didn't want him to explain. Because he wouldn't, he'd say something cutting and sarcastic about caring not being an advantage and how Mycroft was just looking for attention and I couldn't bear to hear it.

I couldn't bear to be party to it again. To validate Sherlock's shitty 'no one matters' attitude anymore because people did matter, and Sherlock knew that.

I left the flat without looking at him, and he remained blessedly silent.

I didn't go to collect Rosie. I started out to Molly's, but I let my feet take me where they would, somewhere. Anywhere. I needed to think, to sort this out in my head because I couldn't do anything for Mycroft Holmes who was dying alone in his house with only his PA by his side and I hated it.

I don't know how long I sat on the bench. It started to get cold, dark and I still had no answers.

A pale trench coat appeared in my peripheral vision, joining me on the bench.

"Sherlock texted me. You went to get Rosie three hours ago, but she's still with Molly, and you aren't answering your phone."

"It's on silent."

Greg nodded. "Want to tell me what's the matter?"

"Mycroft is dying. So far, he's outlived the diagnosis for two weeks. But he's on borrowed time. He sent a car for me. Figured Sherlock hadn't said anything and wanted to make sure I knew that when he died, I would have to keep Sherlock in line by myself. No one would be pulling strings to keep us both out of prison if we broke the law. Apparently, he thinks you wouldn't be able to do it."

"I wouldn't. Whatever Mycroft's pull is, it's more than I will ever have in my lifetime. If you're relying on me, then Sherlock's going to prison."

"Have you ever met him? Mycroft."

"Once or twice, in the early days when Sherlock was using. Once Sherlock got clean not so much. He seemed alright. Wanted what was best for Sherlock," Greg shrugged. "They are a pain in the arse when they are together mind. Smug and superior, Jesus it's enough to turn you to drink. I can't imagine what Christmas must be like."

"I went once. Christmas. Sherlock drugged everyone then took a laptop full of state secrets to the house of a man who was blackmailing government officials and handed it over. Sherlock shot him in the head when he realised he'd been played and had committed treason. Mycroft arrived in a helicopter and stopped Sherlock and me being shot too."

"Yeah well Sherlock is always pulling shit like that, and you've been along with him enough. John, what is this about? I didn't know you liked Mycroft, you seemed pretty set against him."

"I am, was. He's alone Greg. In that house, in a bed wired up to drips and oxygen tanks and no one is with him except his PA. Sherlock, his parents, they've not been to see him. He should be dead already, and they've not been. I don't know what to think of that. I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave Harry to die alone even if it was the booze. If it were Rosie, there wouldn't be a force strong enough to keep me away."

Greg sat quietly beside me. "Yeah, but—,"

"No," I shook my head. "There isn't a reason that makes it OK. There's nothing you can hold up and say that this man deserves to die alone because of this. And I can't, I thought Sherlock had changed. That he'd realised that he can, does, care. Mycroft is dying, and he's at the bloody flat in his pyjamas complaining he's bored."

Greg sighed next to me. "Come on, you can't stay here. It's getting late, and you'll need to get Rosie home. I'll take you to get her then take you both home."

"I, yeah, thanks. Thanks, Greg."

"No problem. Come on."

Greg got us home and made sure I had something in the cupboards which was weird, but perhaps he was used to having to check on Sherlock. Rosie had a bath and went off to bed like she hadn't slept for a week.

I went back into the kitchen and sat in the dark.

Memories flooded me. The images of those I had lost, those I couldn't save filled the kitchen. I'd held Mary as she'd died. I'd been there as Sherlock had jumped. I remembered what he had said. He'd wanted me there. For reasons that were different to how I'd taken it back then, but he'd asked, and I'd stayed. I'd watched because he had asked me to and doing anything else wasn't possible.

I've held men in sand-filled deserts, in canvas tents, sat by bedsides in city hospitals.

People weren't supposed to die alone, it was an anathema to the human condition.

I fumbled for my phone and sent Anthea a text message. I wasn't family. I wasn't sure I even liked Mycroft or that he would want me there, but maybe it wasn't for him. Perhaps it was for me so I could say that I was still the man I thought I was.

Two days later I got a text from Anthea while I was upstairs at Baker Street cleaning the bathroom after one of Sherlock' failed experiments. I found my shoes and sent a text Molly to say I wouldn't be picking Rosie up until later. Sherlock was downstairs on the sofa. I stopped by the door. "Aren't you coming?"

"Where?"

"Mycroft's…."

"Oh, no."

"Pardon?"

"No John, I'm not coming with you. He—,"

"If you are about to say he's doing it for the attention, or that you aren't going because it would be doing what he wants, I will not be held responsible for my actions. For fuck's sake Sherlock he's your brother and if you leave him to die alone, so help me god, I will never speak to you again."

"You don't even like him," Sherlock pointed out.

"Maybe I don't," I admitted. "Maybe I've never had to stop and think about if I like him or not because I've never thought that he wouldn't be there, being the smug, superior prat that he is. Maybe I've never looked past the face he presents to the world because I'm merely an army doctor, and Mycroft Holmes is a man who does not hold a minor government position. A man who is far cleverer than me and it gets up my nose which is exactly what he intends." I took a breath and tried to calm my temper.

"Maybe it doesn't matter to him one way or another if I'm there or not, but it matters to me, Sherlock. It matters to me that I'm there because I've got a lot to thank Mycroft Holmes for. Nearly as much as I've got to curse him for and the day I let a man die alone is the day that I no longer want to walk this earth."

I span and left the room, clattering down the stairs, throwing open the front door, unsurprised to see the black town car waiting. I got in and let it take me away from Baker Street.

Mycroft was surprised to see me. His illness had robbed him of his masks, and he'd lost yet more weight.

"Dr Watson? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You're a smug, arrogant bastard, and I didn't want to give you the gratification of dying alone secure in your belief that no one cares because caring isn't an advantage. I care. I'm still pissed off at you about half a dozen things, and I haven't had time to tell you yet, so I'm not wasting my chance."

Mycroft smiled, seemingly genuinely pleased. "Then by all means, please do enlighten me. I am quite literally a captive audience. Anthea, please get Dr Watson a glass of water he seems to have rather a lot to say."

I nodded accepting the glass of water Anthea brought me and ignoring the grateful look she gave me when her back was to Mycroft. She retreated to the chair by the door silent and sentinel as ever.

"Well then. The kidnappings, I spoke to Greg you know. He got taken out for dinner. Given tickets to football matches. I got damp warehouses with Bond villain lighting."

Mycroft smiled again nodding. "I apologise then, I played to my audience. A man of your experiences would understand the theatrics a little better than Detective Lestrade, he was expecting honest bribery."

I nodded. "Fine. Well, what about bugging my room? I can just about understand bugging the flat. Maybe at a push," I said with a scowl faking annoyance I didn't feel. "But why bug my room? And you kept tracing my phone and being a Holmes, you probably hacked my messages and email. And you took my blog offline."

Mycroft nodded, "Guilty as charged."

"And you spied on my dates."

"That was Sherlock."

"Where do you think he got the idea from?"

Mycroft smiled winsomely. "I concede I may have given him an idea or two."

"You hacked into my bank account. Which while being all kinds of illegal and over the line was also patronising. I told you I wouldn't take your money, but you didn't listen. I'm not a child, I have a job."

Mycroft winced his entire face screwing up in pain. I twitched wanting to help to do something but held still. It wasn't my place.

Mycroft pushed the button on the device by his hand, the machine at the side of his bed beeped in response. "I'm afraid doctor that if you have anything else to say then your time is short."

I dropped the pretend outrage in favour of honesty. "I want to thank you. I never have, and I should have done so before now. I've never considered that this," I waved a hand over his bed. "Would happen. Not to you, which is stupid, but it's true. Some people are too important to die and you, to my everlasting surprise, have become one of those people. I don't know how to mourn you Mycroft."

"Why would you mourn me?" Mycroft asked his voice telling me exactly how much morphine he had just taken.

"I don't know, but I will," I confessed.

Mycroft closed his eyes as the drugs pulled him under, and I sat there patiently at the side of his bed as he slipped away. It seemed horribly wrong to me that it was only Anthea and me at the end. I didn't stop the tears that came. I let them fall because I was going to mourn this man and I didn't know why. I knew he deserved better than to be ignored by his family, by his brother who he had tried to do the best by despite how wrong he had got it on occasion.

Anthea left the room and returned with a man. He examined Mycroft and pronounced him dead before turning off the machines he was hooked up to. Anthea was crying, silent tears dripping from her face spotting her dress.

"Do you want me to call anyone?" I offered although it seemed like a stupid thing to say. Anthea would know better than I who needed calling.

She shook her head. "The funeral director is on his way."

"He was donating his brain, wasn't he?"

"He was disqualified as an organ donor due to cancer. The Royal Society will still receive his brain."

"Will there be a funeral?"

"He didn't want one. He'll be cremated, and his ashes spread."

"Where?" I asked because I wanted to know something about this enigmatic man's dying wishes.

The door opened, and the man came back with a gurney and an assistant. He handed a clipboard over the Anthea who signed the document at the bottom. She gave the clipboard back and gestured me out of the room. I followed, I didn't want to see Mycroft treated as just another corpse.

"Does it matter?" she asked tiredly. "I appreciate your coming and giving him a better end but…" she trailed off looking around at the hall with its dark wood panelling.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I was. "If I can, if it's not top secret then I'd like to be there."

Anthea nodded, her eyes fixed on the wall.

Carefully I reached out and grasped her bicep. "Take care of yourself."

She nodded again, and I headed towards the door leaving her standing in the middle of Mycroft's hall.

The car was waiting, and I got in wondering if I would miss the cars that idled at the curb for me. I was delivered back to Baker Street, I once again stood staring up at the windows unsure if I wanted to go in. Unsure if the man waiting for me was the man I thought I knew.

The man who I'd gone through hell for more than once.

The man who claimed me as family.

The man who had ignored his brother as he died.

I turned away and started walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimers apply, I own nothing.  
I have seen more than one ‘Sherlock dies Mycroft is unmoved’ but of the two I always thought Mycroft had more empathy. He cares for Sherlock, he risks his position/job for his brother. He makes the hard decisions aware of the costs and consequences. Sherlock grows as a person throughout the series but his relationship with Mycroft is still very much one-sided. John’s relationship with Mycroft was heavily coloured by Sherlocks dislike for his brother which occasionally leads him to treat Mycroft as the enemy Sherlock paints him to be. I wondered what would happen if that was challenged.


End file.
